


Sentiment and Sympathy

by BitterHush



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Campbell gets the girl, Campbell/Grace, F/M, If you hate Inspector Campbell turn back now, Mentions of Violence, Tommy is the bad guy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-15
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-03-31 15:12:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13977783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterHush/pseuds/BitterHush
Summary: When Grace hides Tommy away in her flat, things don't go as planned. She receives a threat she never anticipated and seeks refuge with Inspector Campbell. S1E5 rewrite. Chester Campbell/Grace Burgess.





	1. Shadows in Relief

"I was wrong... about him." 

I cannot hold his gaze after saying it. Cannot manage the vindication which may surface there, in Inspector Campbell's eyes. Nor the sorrow and shame which flare in my own belly.  

If I didn’t feel the need to warn him I’d already be at the train station, abandoning everything for a chance at safety. 

"Grace..."  

His hand is gentle, as he reaches for my shoulder, a steady reassurance I cannot possibly deserve now. A comfort I should never have sought out, especially after... 

 _Slanting daylight. The wild, d_ _ull disorder of_ _grasses_ _and graves. The impossible brilliance of a diamond,_ _flashing_ _amidst so much decay. "You deserve better,"_ I had whispered then, meaning it, watching his face contort. Wanting anything but to be a burden and a disappointment to a man I've always admired. 

He steps fully onto the cobblestones, turning me back towards his door like a leaf on the wind, taking my suitcase. I'm suddenly thankful for the deepening night and the misty haze and the brim of my hat as he ushers me inside the flat. _Don't let him see you cry._ Our professional relationship may have dissolved this morning but old habits die hard.  

There are stairs and then a narrow length of hallway. The parlor I'm finally bid to sit in is as bright as day, every corner lit by candle or lamplight, the fireplace blazing high and hot. 

Campbell retreats somewhere while I ponder it all numbly, but I can still feel his presence in the room's orderly design. Book spines and chair backs gleam in sharp, polished lines; draperies and rugs all appear freshly laundered or beaten; a snuff box is centered on the mahogany mantle, a pipe smoldering atop it. More telling, a tumbler of whiskey rests on the low table before me, the bottle beside it half-empty.  

He returns before I can think on this any further, steaming teacups in each hand. I look away before he can view the full sight of my wet, streaked face, somehow hearing myself ask, "No biscuits?"  

The question is a cruel echo I feel compelled to taste on my own tongue. For I cannot understand _what_ has happened – how a person I felt so sure of could deceive me this well. 

"No, I'm sorry..." Campbell ventures quietly, "They attract vermin." 

My sob sounds hysterical in my own ears, as if I've gone mad. Perhaps I have, as I drop my head into my hands and rock forward, the tears threatening to blur everything again. 

"Oh Grace, what has happened to you?" He's sits down beside me, the tea cups clattering on the table. "Was it Thomas? Did he _hurt_ you?" 

The raw edge of the question, the way he sounds feral and uncontrolled while his hand is so light on my back... I know I cannot tell him everything. I knew it when I slipped through the night to come here, buttoning my blouse up to my throat along the way... knowing I shouldn't speak it, even as a small sliver of my soul _wants_ to divulge it all. To retch it up and dispose of the hurt like it is nothing more than sickness.  

 _He'll_ _try to_ _kill Tommy_ , something whispers, deep in my marrow. If I reveal all of it, Inspector Campbell may seek him out this very evening and get himself killed in the process.  

"He _knows_." I stammer, "Thomas Shelby knows I'm an operative. He's known for some time. He claims to–" 

I heave in a breath, trying to put all of the broken pieces back together. Striving to understand _how_ I could have missed so much while being so incredibly careful. _Was it the constant, foreboding fear that distracted me, or the foolish intrigue of a man who understood me?_ I wonder at both clinically, like a surgeon assessing an open wound.  

"What does he claim?" 

The Inspector's palm is spread over my sodden overcoat, rubbing circles there. I can't take the kindness. I sit up straighter, sobering to the pity and the danger which float in tandem in this small room.  

"When he first suspected my duplicity, he said he decided to test me – the hidden caches of liquor and cigarettes, that information was fed to me on purpose." I shrug out of my coat as I babble, feeling Campbell take it from my shoulders. "His men were watching, when yours started the raids. It confirmed his suspicions. Since then he's been waiting to see if I’d turn, if I'd eventually consider being an asset for _him_ instead... And then tonight, when you came to find him at the pub... I..."  

"I know you hid him," There is urgency, as Campbell tosses my coat aside and pulls my shaking hands into his own. "But what did he do, Grace?"  His weathered grip is so solid and sure. As if he could shield me this way. 

"Before he told me everything, Tommy... he..." 

The confusing bliss of the moment swims up, so fresh and cloying that it feels a sin to mare the happy moment with truth. Part of me wants to encapsulate it and keep it from the dark. 

Campbell’s voice shakes, making my head dart up at last, finding his eyes luminous from either drink or emotion, I cannot tell.  

" _Please_ , if he harmed you... I _must_ know." 

"He told me he loved me." 

The words ring around the cheery, well-appointed room, like another proposal. I watch the slap of it harden Campbell's face for the second time today and decide again.  

 _I_ _cannot tell him the_ _whole_ _truth_ _,_ I think _..._ _O_ _f_ _the_ _slow_ _dance which turned into a_ _kiss_ _,_ _which turned into_ _a confession,_ _which turned into a violent struggle again_ _st the wall..._ _Tommy’s hands at my neck when I could not bring myself to say I would work for him in that way..._  

"But when I did not immediately reciprocate... when I declined his advances." I inhale deeply, seeing the moment anew, in this safe place. Realizing that love could have never truly bloomed amidst such rampant deception, alongside all the tests and lies and violence.  

"Thomas told me everything I've told you, and then for the remaining debt he claims to owe me for hiding him tonight, he warned me to leave the city before daybreak. To get away before 'there's no one left to protect you from my family.'" 

"He will not threaten you into anything." The squeeze of Cambell's hands over mine is warmth and strength. Like sunned stone.  

I pull away and rip the hat from my head, rising off the sofa, too wary of my emotions and the edge of relief in Campbell's voice. Pacing before the fireplace feels familiar and calming, as if I'm once again secreting information to my department head, instead of rehashing a horrible revelation.   

"No you don't understand. The black star day I've told you about, I don't think it's what he made it out to be. Thomas said tomorrow will be the end of order and law as we know it. What if it was never meant for Billy Kimber's gang? What if it is meant for _you_ _?"_  

I sense more than see the Inspector stand, his chuckle a sharp, vicious thing in my ears. Not at all the reaction I expected.  

"Forgive me, but I can hardly believe the head of the Peaky Blinders would divulge such a dastardly plan on the eve of its conception – and to a suspected operative, no less." 

He leans against the hearth as I walk back and forth, watching me while the fire coaxes warmth into my limbs.  

"But there was a gun missing from the grave..."  

It feels like I'm on brittle ground, bringing up the cemetery, but he answers without a waver.  

"One of several hundred, which we now possess. If he truly wants a war on the streets, my men will be readied and equipped come morning." 

Everything is now a jumble of information and misinformation. It will take me days to sort out the true from the contrived, if ever... but the same dark inclination which makes me believe the Inspector would try to murder Tommy this evening, if I divulged the detailed scuffle between us, tells me there is something greater at work here.  

"I have spent months searching for those guns." Campbell reaches for his pipe, drawing deep on the dwindling embers. "They're as heavily guarded as the King's treasury now, I can assure you." 

He gauges my movements for a long moment, concern etched there. I can tell he wants to say more but I cannot bring myself to stop moving or thinking of all the ways I have failed my department. My career. _Myself_.  

 _So foolish, to fall for a person I_ _only_ _knew_ _on the surface._ _A person who_ _compelled me to murder a man while he_ _beat_ _the other_ _to death before my_ _own_ _eyes..._ _I was living with beasts, as_ _Campbell long_ _-_ _warned. Living for_ _isolated_ _months without true perspective_ _._  

"Do you have a telephone, to call the department and check?" 

"Yes, that would be prudent," he says softly, abandoning authority once more and stepping into the foyer. I almost wish he would stay professional. His compassion only manages to remind me of all my faults.  

I move to the curtains, peeling back an inch of the heavy fabric to view the street below. Mist continues to curl and float along the cold promenade, lamp lights waxy under the haze. Perhaps if the room wasn't so bright I could view more. Assess any approaching danger. 

 _Did I properly_ _check if I was being followed, on the way here?_   

I try to remember any potential tails amidst the terror and turns of my journey, and find I can't. Campbell's voice floats out from the hall, distracting me. He sounds... concerned. Wary even.  

He steps back into the room moments later, as I start to blow out candles, his gaze far-off as he watches me. 

"I'd like a better view of the street, if that's agreeable,” I explain. “What did they say?" 

He looks away, dimming the lamp nearest him. The room turns honey-colored, despite the sharp edges of shadow. 

“There have been no disturbances at headquarters and the guns remain accounted for. Two officers are on their way here, for guard duty.”  

“But something has happened?” 

I watch him drop into an armchair. Catch him almost reach for the whiskey before taking a long drink of tea instead. 

"Why did Thomas Shelby hint at his supposed plans after you refused him?" He wonders aloud, "To lead us down a false trail and distract the police from another venture?"  

"What has happened, Mr. Cambell?" I press, snuffing out the last candle with my fingers so I can watch him fully.  

"Civil unrest in Small Heath. Bonfires on the streets. It seems the Shelby's have been spreading discontent and arming citizens, as they threatened to do years ago. We must weather this storm while the beasts run rampant, I’m afraid." 

I clench my hands to stop the shaking. "You haven't deployed a garrison, have you?"  

"No, you are right to question the welfare of the guns, no matter the unlikelihood." He rises, moving beside me at the windows. "I will not divert manpower now, not in the dead of night with almost half my men asleep or at their leisure. It could very well be a diversion meant to spread us thin."  

He growls out the last, peaking into the street, lamplight drawing a pale, yellow line down his cheek. Months in his service have taught me that his ire can become a spreading, volatile thing – capable of reaching in every direction at once. Towards the Peaky Blinders, Billy Kimber, the Lees, the lesser gangs and gypsies, and the paltry police force he has been assigned to manage. 

But not towards me. His anger is not for me – at least not in this moment – because he has said _we must weather this storm_. As if he intends to protect me here.  

 _No, I cannot stay,_ my conscious warns. I've delivered Tommy's supposed plans to the only man capable of disbanding his coming violence, yet there is always a chance for disaster. I have been in the Shelbys' service long enough to know they have eyes and ears everywhere. To find and dispatch me would be an easy thing, if I was to disobey Tommy’s final, bitter threat and stay in Birmingham beyond daybreak. 

“I have no right to ask,” I begin, shame welling up anew, making me stumble over the words, “but could you spare just one officer? To take me to a train?” 

“ _No_.” He barks, flapping the curtain shut. “You can’t go out there now. I wouldn’t trust your safety to fifty of my men on the street, much less one.” 

He reaches to grasp my hands again but I step back. "I don't have a _choice_. I should be dead already! If I don't heed him, if I don't leave–" 

"I will not let them harm you, Grace!" 

The wildness has returned to his crystalline gaze, a simmering wrath which does not bolster me. It used to – in the wake of my own spiraling rage and grief, after my father's death, when I needed to be snapped back into some semblance of reality – but not now that Thomas Shelby is an unpredictable, foreign person.  

The threat I have misread as an ally haunts me: the gangster with assets beyond the Inspector's own reckoning. God only knows what Tommy plans for the day. Perhaps he's been planning it since he first suspected me weeks ago.  

 _Has he been manipulating the police by feeding me false leads?_  

It's another dizzying course to contemplate, but Campbell takes hold of my shoulders before I can think on it further. "When my men arrive, I'll have to go out there, to aid the patrolling officers on duty. You’ll be safe here, but just the same, did you bring a weapon with you?" 

Panic flickers low in my gut, like the dancing shadows on the walls. Despite knowing Campbell can never truly protect me here, or anywhere else in the city, I find I do not _want_ him to leave. I'm greedy for his fierceness and his familiarity. For the fortitude he conveys despite my rambling fear. 

"No, _please_ ," I hear myself beg, "Don't leave – not unless you're taking me to a train."  

A thought follows – a desperate, fraying ribbon I try to braid into a cord of possibility.  

"Come with me. We'll both go. To London, or north instead. It doesn't matter. Just as long as we aren't _here_ in the morning."  

His hands curl around my shoulders, eyes darting over my face. Looking for meaning and truth, much like he did at sunrise, before I refused him. 

"Why this terror? What did he really do to you?”  

"Nothing," I breathe, stumbling to pull the explanation back together. "Except warn me not to stay. I believe his threats, don't you?" 

"Oh yes. That's all he is at his core – a murderer and an intimidator – but what else happened tonight, between you?"  

"Nothing, I swear it." But my tone is too high and spindly, and a hand flies to my throat before I can stop the impulse. 

I feel as if I’m unwinding, beneath the Inspector’s searching glare. I haven't had the time to pack away my shattered infatuation with Thomas and the wound of it is bleeding too brightly, turning and twisting my usually careful voice into a fevered imitation of calm. 

I close my eyes as I feel one of Campbell's hands skim across my shoulder, my neck tightening as he pushes my hair aside. He stills for a long moment before undoing the top button of my collared blouse, fingers tracing the tender flesh there, where the bruise must have already started to bloom.  

“ _Jesus_ …” he exhales, pulling away, as if I’m damaged beyond repair. “I will never forgive… I should have _never_ thought…”  

The crack in his voice is too much then. I cannot bear another’s pain on my account, and yet I’ve managed it again: the same man, broken-hearted for the same broken woman.  

“It’s done now,” I whisper, blinking back fresh tears as I take his hands into mine. It's the first time I’ve offered them freely because I’m so terrified of what will surely come next: the storming, righteous path of a man bent on murder. 

“The day after next, do as you will,” I urge, watching his gaze flicker across the rug, anywhere but on me. “But _please_ _,_ we must leave the city tonight. Let this savagery stay behind us, for just a day, if that is all you can spare. Tell the department to barricade the guns until you return.” 

“You think a _day_ away will calm my vengeance?!” He snarls. “That it will be enough to save him for you – because that’s what you really want here isn’t it, Grace, to _save_ him. Despite the monstrous bastard he is? Despite what he’s done to you!”   

The accusation is so cold and vicious, I barely hold onto his clenched fists for fear of a new bout of violence. But there is also an aching torment in his voice, the same grief he hurled at me this morning. I must negotiate with him somehow, if I’m to gain any tangible safety tonight.  

“You said he was between us, Mr. Campbell,” I choke out, clasping him tighter as he tries to wrench away. “And the truth is he has been… I was deceived and seduced by Thomas Shelby, I will not deny it. But I never intended to save him from his crimes. I have served the pursuit of justice without wavering. It is my only accolade. And tonight was no different. I meant to engender his trust, by hiding him away, not to keep him from you... except, the foolishness of sentiment got the better of me and it was all for nothing.” 

The Inspector has gone very still, as if he has turned into a looming, gothic statue in my grasp. I suck in a breath, afraid he’ll forsake me now if I stop explaining. 

“I never imagined a life with him, or with anyone else for that matter. I’ve long accepted that I’m ruined for this world and the people in it… so when you asked me to marry you…”  

When he doesn’t prevent me I draw his hands to my chest and dip my head to them as if in prayer. 

“When you asked me to marry you, this morning, Mr. Campbell, I refused because there is not enough of me left to be a wife. I would surely fail and dishonor you, and your admiration for me would turn to ash.” 

“You could never–”  

“But _this_ was something I could give." I rush on, "This warning and this clue, whether real or contrived, I do not know – but I am certain some of it holds at least a drop of truth.”  

I press the backs of his hands against my feverish forehead.  

“So do as you will tomorrow but please, if you still love me at all, give me this one thing. Take me away from here tonight.” 

A log in the fireplace settles, popping and crackling. Dogs bark out on the street. A clock ticks somewhere, deeper within the flat.  

I cannot bring myself to open my eyes and examine him. For I'm too afraid I'll be forced to leave here on my own, with harsh words and my pistol between us. I won't be penned in, waiting for daylight to seal my death warrant with the Peaky Blinders, no matter the cost.  

" _Please_ ," I murmur.  

He steps closer, and I let him fold me against his chest, my arms between us as he strokes my hair. Below the bitter tang of tobacco and whiskey, I realize his shirt smells of bergamot and jasmine. Like the sachets my launderer pins onto my own dry cleaning.  

"It is truly done then?" He breathes against my temple. "Your... sympathy for Thomas Shelby." 

I want to pull away, a fissure of anger cracking through the comfort I am so close to feeling somehow, in the arms of another man. Only an hour after heartbreak.   

"Do you think I would still have feelings for a person who _harmed_ me?" 

His grip on me strengthens, as if he fears I might flee, "No, not in truth, Grace. Your heart might be too tender for this profession, but it is not beyond respect and reason. If you say it, I believe you.” 

He hugs me closer as I start to speak, hushing me gently. 

"I will not ask for your hand in marriage again, for I fear two of your gentle refusals in the same day may cripple me... But just tell me that my love for you holds some value – that it at least means something to you – and I will find a way to do as you wish." 

The passionate, hopeful turn of his voice undoes me for a long moment, and I find it difficult to logically weigh all of the avenues before me. Indecision for anything but escape has marred my ability to speak. 

But then the stretching silence reminds me too much of my previous refusal, and I long to stopper the memory.  

"Mr. Campbell, your admiration and love mean more to me than you will ever comprehend." I manage, finding the words to be the honest truth as they ring in my ears, no matter how fresh and bewildering they may be.  

He's the only person who has ever tried to cultivate the best of me, despite my patchwork of flaws. That _does_ mean something.  

His breath hitches near my ear, the slightest movement of air in this hot room, and I know he is pleased. My own relief flares on the wings of his happiness, as I can already feel the dark, welcoming press of the train platform surrounding us. It is a promise he will not deny me now, I'm sure.  

"Then I'll delay us no longer." He presses a long kiss to the crown of my head before striding into the foyer.  


	2. The Varied Outline

Far-off gunfire and raucous voices still echo in my ears while monstrous, fire-lit shadows dance behind my eyes whenever I blink.  

Despite the winding course required, and the fact that there have been far fewer officers than Inspector Campbell demanded for an escort, we have made it here safely.  

Our car rocks to a stop below the station entry and I realize my hand is stiff from clutching the pistol in my handbag. I flex my fingers.   

"Get the luggage," Campbell orders the copper in front. 

He pulls me towards him in the same breath, the pressure of his grip unwavering as he assesses the train station through our back window. There is none of the bright, chaotic firelight here, but the platform lamps disperse enough illumination to estimate the safety of our approach.  

It would be a difficult thing, I decide quickly, to conceal oneself along the well-lit rail line. Campbell seems to agree. He shoulders the door open and shifts us out onto the parkway.  

The car which has followed us empties as well, three of those officer's trotting ahead. The clap of boots on brick is swallowed up by the chuffing wheeze of an engine billowing steam. Clouds of it float above the station's roof, fading into a starless night. I pray this train is ready to disembark. 

"London or Liverpool?" Campbell asks.  

The barrel of his pistol gleams when he cocks it in the wan light, and I realize I've never seen him with a weapon in hand.  

 _He fears thi_ _s_ _as much as I do now._  

"I'd board the Titanic in this moment, if it were the quickest way out of Birmingham." 

He nods grimly. "Very well. Wherever chance takes us then." 

"Has it become an _us_?"  

I mean it as a question of ridership rather than romantic attachment and quickly amend. "You'll leave as well?" 

One of the officers on the platform waves for us to come forward and the Inspector pulls me into motion. Another copper jogs ahead, the baggage handler taking up the rear. 

"I'd see you all the way through your journey if I could, Grace, but you saw the gatherings on the way here. You know the imperatives of our operation." 

 _Secure_ _the gun consignment_ _until its recovery._   _Save face for Churchill and the bloody crown._  

I understand the limitations of his police force far better than most, but I suspect his insistence does not solely originate from a sense of occupational duty. I've caught his sideways glances on the way here... the way his jaw clenched whenever he considered my neck.  

"You would have me travel alone, at this time of night?" 

It is an unfair question, for a man who has already abandoned over an hour to protect me, but I'm beyond caring about morality. I've found I fear for him now, with my own safety near at hand. 

"Two of these men will travel with you the entire way." He says, stepping onto the rail platform. "Chief Inspectors do not _run_ from gangsters." 

We're at the ticket window before I can argue further and he calls for service. I glance about, my attention drawn to the far end of the deserted platform. Its obscured, shadowy corners begin to warp into solid, dangerous forms the longer I stare.  

 _This has all_ _been_ _too simpl_ _e_ _._  

Who’s to say Tommy hasn’t changed his mind about me, amidst the riotous attitude pulsing through his territory? The policemen around us seem tense with the same worry, shifting in place as they’re made to wait in the open. It feels as if the distant, growing thrum of civil discontent will spill down the railway any second.  

"...Only traveling to London this time of night, Sir." An elderly man says within the booth. 

"Fine. That's fine. Just hurry with the tickets and tell the conductor we’ll be leaving _now_." 

There is a slap of coins against countertop, a shuffle of papers, and then I'm drawn close to Campbell’s side again.  

A train has never looked so beautiful – this sooty, ironclad behemoth. It was surely built to spirit souls away from the grips of ruination, not to simply move people from place to place. 

 _Tommy_ _said he loved me… and then_ _,_ _with barely_ _an_ _explanation between us,_ _he choked me._  

I suppress the flash of wicked recollection as the Inspector ushers me onto the nearest carriage. He tucks in close behind while the policeman with my suitcase leads. I realize in a rush how ominous we must appear to the few bleary-eyed passengers we pass: officers with guns in hand, silently ghosting along the aisle without preamble.  

"This one is where she'll stay." Campbell gestures to the first private compartment in the coach before taking my bag from our escorting officer and nodding him ahead. "See that the conductor is indeed busy and then come back here. Knock four times." 

We press into the tight sleeper room, the space hardly large enough for two people to stand within. Behind me the sliding door closes with a smooth click, and then it's just the stuffy haze of a poorly ventilated room, a pair of bunks, and a man who finally appears hesitant to leave me.  

 _Could I make him stay,_ I wonder in a new bout of desperation, _if I tried convincing him with more than worry and words?_  

"You've done well to warn us, Grace." He holsters his pistol and pulls me into an embrace, as if it is now a natural compulsion. "I would have stormed the streets to disband this ravel, if not for your informative haste. I believe you may have kept the guns from them again, my brave, sweet girl." 

"I did nothing," I murmur into his wool overcoat. "Except ruin a five-month long operation." 

I feel him lean back and assess me before the cool whisper of a leather glove is under my chin, urging me to look up.  

"You completed your mission," he insists. "I'll be writing nothing but praises in my report." 

The professional and personal shame of it all threatens to undo me again, a tightness growing in the back of my throat. But there are other things I should be saying now – things I should be convincing him to do. 

“I fear more than lives will be lost if we part ways now, Mr. Campbell... If you stay to face whatever unlawfulness is brewing, I worry you'll have to sacrifice a portion of your soul in the process.” 

I hold onto his coat lapels, as if I could anchor him to this tight, muffled place. It could be a safe haven for a time, removed from all the guns and retribution and bloodshed.  

 _Would it truly be such a_ _sacrifice_ _,_ I want to argue _, to_ _abandon vengeance and_ _abdicate to_ _night’s duties to_ _your_ _second in command_ _?_ _Just_ _this_ _once_ _? At the deadliest hour?_  

He studies me like I’m a painting in the city gallery, attention tracing every part of my face in detailed, flickering strokes. When the train whistle cuts through the lingering moment, his eyes soften.  

"When this horrible business is done will you permit me to come to you?" He inhales, looking away. "I shouldn't dare ask it, but you continue to give me hope... Do you think you would perhaps accept me then, Grace?" 

It is too much, delivered far too soon. Heartache still clouds my vision. Commitment is impossible. 

My gaze slants to the doorway window, trying and failing to summon words to convey my emotions with kindness and honesty. I find the answer is more yes than no, but such a response is too simplistic when I consider the implications of falsely bolstering his prospects.  

 _Do not break his heart again,_ sympathy protests. _Honesty can wait._  

For if tonight goes as I fear... if I never see Inspector Campbell again… kindness is far greater than truth. 

"You may." I say softly, "And though I will never live to deserve your regard, it is possible that with time and distance from my experiences in Birmingham, I could someday come to accept the idea of marriage." 

Campbell's lips stretch into a smile which is surely made for finer things than I, but my attention is drawn to a shadow moving behind him, across the door’s distorted glass pane.  

Four quick knocks sound, the interruption loud enough to make me jump, and I'm desperate for my handgun in a wild, illogical moment. 

In the next, the Inspector's lips are pressed against mine, puckering into a _shush_ as he feels my tension.  

My fright at the officer’s return ebbs like a retreating tide, giving way to the warmth and almighty goodness of being kissed well and slow and without further ambition. Only the threat of the Inspector's departure keeps me from abandoning thought completely, for _this_ I find, is a distraction I’d burn for – this blurring sensory bliss.  

 _Perhaps I might be mended, one day,_ _by_ _his_ _unflinching_ _attention and admiration_ _._ I try to hold onto that emerging hope as he withdraws.  

Campbell tilts his forehead against my own, something close to a laugh breaking through him. It’s so foreign and pure that the contagion of it finally draws a grin from me as well.  

“You’ve made me very happy, Grace.” He whispers, fingers spanning my waist.   

The knock comes again and the officer shouts, “Time to go, Sir.”  

The train carriage grinds into motion as if in agreement, pitching us both sideways. Campbell holds me steady while I clutch him all the harder. 

“Wait in London,” he urges. “Send word where you’re staying and I’ll come as soon as I’m able.” 

“I’m sending word now – I’m _here_. Don’t leave.” 

The heavy _chug_  of the engine is building, as if my own thrumming trepidation is somehow fueling the machine. Campbell's resolve seems so close to breaking, his hand trembling against my cheek, gaze desperate to memorize my own. 

The thought that I may truly be enough to withhold him from Tommy's murder is so sweet and intoxicating that I hear myself sob. It's like tasting country air again – like being given a chance at something fragile and mythical, yet too _real_ to deny when it stands right in front of you.  

 _I still matter to someone. I'm still seen._  

There is suddenly more noise than there is train, and the fantasy of it all shatters. The huffing progress of turning pistons fades behind three sharp retorts.

 _Gunfire. Outside._   _On the platform._   _On the other side of the_   _coach._  

Campbell steps away from me and draws his weapon in a blur, opening the doorway.  

"What did you see?" He demands of the copper, "Who? How _many_?" 

"I think they shot Moris. It’s John Shelby, with at least three others. There might be–" 

Another pistol sounds and a rapid exchange of fire follows, all from outside. Glass shatters somewhere within our coach and a woman screams. Others shout and bully for cover, the clamor turning mob-like and terrifying.  

I fist a hand into Campbell's coat, my other tightening around the cold grip of my pistol.  

We’ve only seconds to decide, I fear, for the train is moving. Gaining speed.  _Leaving_. Separating us from our chance to aid the men who will be left behind. 

“Stay or fight, Sir?” The copper asks from his position on the floor – my own question thick on his tongue. 

“ _Fight_ , god damn them!” Campbell roars, pushing out of the room.  

He yanks the officer to his feet and shoves the man towards me in one fierce motion, his eyes stark and brutal for a fractured moment.  

“If you _leave_ her – if you let any harm come to her, O'Connell – I’ll _shoot_ you myself!” 

The threat echoes in my mind, clear and crippling against the growing chaos, and then Inspector Campbell is simply _gone_. Before we can exchange any sort of farewell, the door slams shut.   

“Forget me,” I breath, leaning against the wall, fighting to control my shaking hands. “There aren’t enough of you – you have to help _them_.” 

O’Connell straightens quickly and draws himself against the door jam, a tall man crouching low to listen through the haze of panic outside. _Ignoring_ me. There is the undeniable, bumping promise of a train car picking up speed now, beneath our feet.  

“Get out there and _help!”_ I shout, “Or move aside so Ican!” 

A new smattering of pistol-fire echoes somewhere in the night, sounding more distant than before. I panic anew.  

“We can’t abandon them! The Shelby’s surely came for _me_. It's me they want. Let me out!” 

O’Connell finally glances my way, his dark, hollowed gaze darting to the room's only exterior window.  

“We're already moving too fast to jump,” he nods behind me. “The Inspector likely hasn’t made it out and is still on board. We _wait_ , as he ordered.” 

When he turns back to the slider again I press my gun between his shoulder blades, the fabric of his uniform tenting around the barrel. 

“ _Move_.” 

"I won't," He answers without hesitation, "I've been given an order that I intend to follow." 

"Then _bloody_ follow it and stick beside me. We can at least check the other coaches." 

As O'Connell considers this, I realize the noises beyond our small room have dimmed. Voices have begun talking instead of yelling, and the train is almost at a hurried clip, rocking and swaying on the rails.  

"I sweep this car first while you stay here," he concedes grimly. "Deal?" 

"Yes, do it." I lower my pistol and watch him slip out.  

The world tilts, from either the surreal minutes which have passed or the train's movement, I cannot be certain.  

Deep, steadying breaths help me remember that worrying is futile. I repeat the slow mantra as I wait:  _Worry_ _is useless. Worry can get you killed. Worry will not help you now. Focus, only focus may aid you._  

When O'Connell reopens the slider and bids me to follow I feel somewhat steadier. He leads us through the back carriages at a jog, helping me bridge the windy turbulence of the connectors in between them. People are wide-eyed and talkative, but none appear harmed. _Gangsters haven't boarded._

My heartbeat is wild and my breath ragged when we finally reach the last of the attached cars. Two windows have been shot out and a fierce gust whips above the open booth seating, swirling my hair back into my face. Most of the passengers are huddled towards the front, away from a cluster of turmoil at the coach's rear. A few in the aisle scatter aside when we yell and gesture with our pistols. 

"Get back from there!" O'Connell barks, side-stepping past a crying mother and child. "Unless you’re a doctor, _move_!"  

I can't see what he sees right away, but the fresh tang of blood and soot and gunpowder is heavy here. Almost as if the three have melded to create a perfume of death and ruin.    

 _Don't look,_ a part of my being screams.

I try to focus on the mother instead, as she clutches her daughter close – try to only examine the beautiful, tragic way she has managed to cocoon her screaming girl with her whole, shuddering body.  

"Miss Burgess!" O'Connell is pulling me hard, drawing me forward despite my hesitation. "Do you have any first aid training?" 

"Yes, some." I manage, stealing myself for what I will surely see.  

 _Who_ I will see lying there.  

 _Because of me... This evening has_ _unfolded this way, because of me._   

Tears are already wet on my cheeks as O'Connell steps into an open seat, letting me pass.  

For a long, unfathomable moment all I see is Inspector Campbell lying there, twisted and bleeding across the aisle way.  

But then I blink. And then blink again.  

And I realize a different man is there instead. A _stranger_. A passenger I have never met.  

I dip to this person, hands fluttering over their bicep wound.  

My vision blurs as I rip away a shirt sleeve, tourniqueting a bullet hole I barely register; my hearing growing dull and distant, amidst the roar of wind and people and _fear_. 

Relief turns cold... so very cold and uncertain, like the arm draining blood within my grasp.  

I glance up, out the back carriage window.  

 _Where is Mr. Campbell?_   


	3. An Opaque Landscape

_Six_ _weeks later, London_

“I cannot understand you, Grace!” My cousin, Eloise, cries for the second time this morning. "The whole of London society is at your fingertips yet you _refuse_ to socialize. My word, I’ve no idea how that ghastly city made you an even bigger bore..." 

She hasn’t taken a bite of the _tarte_ _fromage_ she demanded for breakfast but rings for the maid to clear service.  

Across the length of table my aunt reads a paper without comment, utterly impervious to her daughter's outbursts. It was the same in our youth, on the occasions my father sent me here, to visit his brother’s grand home in Eaton Square. This side of my family is only compassionate when it suits them.  

"I'm sorry. There are things I must attend to today." I take a sip of tea, searching through the headlines of my own newspaper. 

 _STRIKES THREATEN_ _BRISBON_ _MANUFACTURING -_ _CEREMONY_ _HELD_ _FOR SEVEN OFFICERS -_ _PROPOSAL_ _MADE_ _TO DEVELOP_ _WESTEND_ _PROPERTIES_

"You mean that dreadful government office again.” Eloise clicks her lighter, gesturing with a cigarette. “Which do you think is worse, mumma? The filthy factory town our Grace escaped from, or the intolerable military office she insists on frequenting now?” 

“Grace may do as she pleases,” my aunt comments from behind her paper. It is the closest she will come to reprimanding my cousin for insensitivity. 

“I think the office,” Eloise persists. “What a horrid, dank place. Not a handsome gentleman or officer in sight. Just piles of paperwork and telephone operators in a dim, cramped room. It surely can't be the only method for hearing word from your _dear_ Inspector, can it Grace?” 

She twists the last with a conspiratorial drawl, as if this concern is something we share. As if she feels she understands me, because I came into her household with a man in my thoughts and happened to let her join me when I first went looking for answers. 

Eloise’s simplistic interests of societal intrigue and revelry are so distant from my own. So very, very far from any sense of honesty or compassion, yet I envy her all the same. For she cannot possibly understand what it means to break for someone; to battle the haunting question of ‘ _what_ _happened_ _to him_ _?’_ throughout her frivolous days of luncheons and shopping.  

She has not felt the stretching haze of sleeplessness, as her nights extended into voids of sorrow and she was left with no real options except to pace and question and grieve a circumstance she could only guess at, while also grieving a different man – a person who had seemed to love her, before instead hurting her beyond forgiveness.  

 _No, her nights have never been so dismal and complicated._  

Above all else, my thoughts are never far from the train station. During the brief visits I'm allowed within the special communications office Eloise detests, I have only been granted the barest of facts: _Inspector Chester Campbell was shot; he is recovering; his place of recovery must remain undisclosed for security measures; several members of the Shelby family were_ _arrested_ _amidst the rioting_ _._  

I fold the newspaper beside my plate, numbing myself to the continuing disappointment of finding no further news from Birmingham. Much like my cousin, London society only expects stories about the aftermath of a low-class upheaval when such a disturbance threatens the production of a valuable commodity.  

"Here's the mail," Eloise chimes, and I know she is watching me as it arrives, waiting to see how desperate I might be today. If she torments me with false hope again I may finally throw a teacup at her cruel smile.  

I force myself to stare at my toast as the butler sets a tray beside her and another beside my aunt. Eloise begins shuffling through her neat stack, the envelopes whispering against each other like soft secrets.  

"There is a gentleman at the door who wishes to see Miss Burgess,” the butler addresses the room. "The _visiting_ Miss Burgess, that is." 

My gaze darts up but Eloise is already speaking.  

"Grace? Who could possibly wish to see _Grace_? She hasn't called upon a soul since she threw herself into our care!" 

"Did he give a name?" I ask, my heart a hammering thing in this pale, ornate room. It might crack the porcelain, for all its clamor.  

"No Ma'am. Would you prefer to have him call upon you at a later time? I asked the gentleman to remain outside, in lieu of your circumstances.” 

 _It could be anyone,_ I remind my aching chest. _It could_ _be an old acquaintance._ _A_ _relation_ _... Or all the worse, it could be a Shelby who has_ _decided_ _to rectify my deceptions._  

"Good heavens, Brant! In _this_ weather?” Eloise has risen from her chair, leaning into the wide bay window to view the man. "Send him in, whoever he is. It will be a relief to see our poor, moody Grace engaging in conversation again." 

"Wait," I urge as Brant turns to leave, rising to my feet as well. I’m so afraid of disappointment but need to know. "It was wise to keep him outdoors. He may not be a friend." 

I hurry beside Eloise, wiping at the fogging glass. The drizzle that persisted through the night has grown into slashing rain now, forming small rivers in the street. It shatters against every hard thing it encounters: the wrought iron fencing; the marble steps; the man’s black umbrella.  

“Rather a persistent fellow, to put up with this mess,” Eloise muses. “Is it your long-awaited love?” 

“Please allow him in,” I call, puffing condensation against the window pane. 

“Certainly, Ma’am. Shall I see him into the the Garden Parlor or the Freesia Room?” 

It is a small kindness from him – to allow me, a mere guest, the right to choose where to entertain another. 

“What a _presumptive_ novelty you are this morning, Brant.” Eloise snaps. “See the gentleman into the back Tea Room, if it please you.” 

“Very good, Ma’am.” 

The door to the dining room clicks shut and I straighten fully, my mind ablaze with so many concerns beside being ordered into the lowliest of the house parlors. The answers I seek may finally be at hand… 

“You should change into something more fetching for your gentleman caller.” Eloise is still examining the man outside, smoke curling around her. “I have a gown from my second season that may fit your dwindling frame.”  

It is such a snide, ill-mannered comment – for my weight has indeed suffered – that I momentarily forget everything else except keeping my tongue between my teeth. 

“I could of course entertain him, until you’re properly attired...” 

The low, suggestive lilt of her offer finally makes something uncontrollable flare behind my vision – a vicious surge of _fury_ that has me feeling feral. It is as if I have suddenly joined the ranks of the Peaky Blinders, instead of fleeing from them. 

“Cousin, your warmth and concern since my arrival here have been unrivaled.” I lean closer to her, imagining the invisible, powerful weight of my pistol between us. “But today, sweet Eloise,” I whisper, “I must insist that you find someone else to ingratiate with your kindnesses and _stay the bloody hell away from_ _both he and I_.” 

There is a warped kind off beauty in the way her face freezes in the grey light, a momentary affront that she cannot hide. In the next, her sharp, unhurried grin replaces it, even as a confused consideration still lingers. 

“Did you _hear_ her mumma? Challenging our hospitality like that… My, my, how interesting you have finally become, Grace.” She drops her voice, for my ears alone, “Do take care to hide such improprieties during your _lovely_ reunion with your factory yard policeman.” 

My aunt speaks up with expert delay and conversational context, her paper rustling. “It is an interesting time for all women, darling...” 

 _Interesting indeed_ _,_ I almost remark, _when famil_ _ies_ _forsake any real sense of concern_ _to_ _instead_ _treat_ _their_ _relatives_ _with_ _apathy and scorn._     

I push away from the window sill, striding across the length of room. When the uncertainties before me finally dissolve and I am able to find my own home, I vow to never look back on these women. 

* * *

“It is good to see you again, Officer O’Connell.” 

I take the man’s hand in mine, trying to make my brittle smile appear somewhat genuine. The last time we saw each other was in front of this very house – me with blood under my fingernails and no sense of direction, and he with the unshakable determination to catch a return train to Birmingham. I can do little else but associate him with gunfire and shouting and chaos. 

“You as well, Miss Burgess. Or would you prefer Agent Burgess? You’ll forgive me, for not knowing your profession at the time...” 

“Grace is fine, please.” I gesture to the settee before sitting down myself, my hands suddenly feeling too unoccupied. “Tea or something stronger?” 

He declines both while pulling a square of paper from inside his suit coat, cradling the envelope as though he fears damaging it. "I've been told the communications office has kept you mostly in the dark about what’s happened?" 

I nod, and then it seems no further words are needed. No tea, or biscuits, or meaningless pleasantries. Just a long look between us, and I am certain he is the messenger I’ve been waiting for.  

He begins smoothing out a pair of letters on the low table, pushing both towards me. 

“Strictly speaking, I’ve been told sharing this first bit of information isn’t permitted, mind you. But since I’ll be putting it back here,” he pats his pocket, “as soon as I’m done reviewing it again on this fine table, I can’t see the harm.” 

I clasp my hands all the tighter, vision blurring on the typed and handwritten papers between us – too afraid to read or even touch them, for an irrational, terrifying moment.  

“Is it… is it good news?” 

“Most of it.” O'Connell urges, tapping a finger against a blocky paragraph. “Especially this bit.” 

Exhaling, I close my eyes for a long moment before drawing the typed letter into my lap.  

 _Dear_ _Sirs and_ _Officers,_

 _It is with my_ _deepest_ _regard_ _s_ _that I commend your valor_ _and determination_ _this past_ _May_ _. I have been told of your_ _various acts of_ _bravery_ _and steadfastness_ _throughout the rioting which overtook Birmingham, and_ _was_ _deeply_ _move_ _d. It_ _is a sou_ _nd_ _relief to find_ _that_ _men_ _of_ _good_ _service_ _still_ _inhabit_ _areas entrenched in criminality_ _and civil discontent, for it_ _is_ _with_ _the lowest_ _of our_ _countr_ _y’s_ _populace_ _that_ _we must_ _always_ _strive the_ _greatest_ _._  

 _Please do accept this invitation to dine and be honored on the twenty sixth of_ _June_ _,_ _at ten thirty in the morning in the London War Office building._ _Retain this letter for admittance, as_ _this_ _occasion_ _is a private affair meant_ _to_ _commend_ _only_ _officers and gentleman of your_ _own_ _exemplary_ _service_ _and standard._  

 _Yours Sincerely,_  

 _Winston Churchill_  

I skim the letter once more, tracing the Secretary of War's signature at its bottom. If not for my confusion, I might be more impressed.  

“You’re in London for this?” My days have bled together but I think the twenty sixth is the day after next. “What did Birmingham police do to deserve it – if I'm to assume you all received an invitation?”  

O'Connell shrugs, “Well, you know how little I did. _They_ stopped half the city from burning down, held back an assault on the armory, killed John Shelby, and arrested the head of the family himself, Thomas Shelby.” 

 _So he's truly a_ _rrested then…_ _not_ _killed._ I am not so callous as to wish Tommy dead, but prison means little for a gangster with influence and wealth. Like a curtain between two rooms, it is easily circumvented, if he decides to conduct business from within.

I push the emerging worry of it aside. “John was shot at the station?” 

“He and four others ambushed our escort drivers and then tried overtaking the men on the platform. The shots we heard on the train, that was part of the shoot-out that ended with two of ours killed, another two wounded, and the lot of those bastards bleeding out. Apparently, the teller in the ticket booth had a rifle and no real love for the Peaky Blinders. Old man’s been invited by Churchill as well, or so I’m told.” 

I imagine John Shelby’s face for a long moment, letting his usually sardonic grin twist into rage and bloodlust. _Yes_ , I feel with a shiver, _why else would he be at that station except to stop me from escaping._

"I'm in London for the ceremony invitation," O'Connell says quietly, taking the Churchill letter and laying the other in its place. "But I've come to see you today to deliver this." 

The echoing clamor of billowing steam and screaming and shattering glass fades from memory, replaced with only the scrawling words now beneath my gaze.  

 _My dearest Grace,_  

 _I cannot begin to comprehend_ _the_ _turmoil_ _you have been through since we last parted, nor_ _the_ _frustration_ _you must feel at being denied information about the events that have transpired._  

 _I can only hope that you will let me share such details with you_ _in person, and_ _that you may_ _someday forgive me for leaving you behind. It has become my greatest regret, letting_ _you out of my arms_ _,_ _yet they have decided to name_ _it_ _my greatest_ _accolade._  

 _There is too much to write here and_ _too little time. I know you are being wary, like_ _the_ _intelligent_ _agent_ _you have_ _always_ _been_ _,_ _and_ _believe_ _O'Connell to_ _be one of the few_ _me_ _n_ _you might trust_ _. Please_ _know_ _I would be on your doorstep myself, if not for the security detail they'll saddled me with._ _This is the most important thing: I've_ _been given leave_ _to_ _come to_ _London and won't_ _let orders_ _keep me_ _from you_ _anymore_ _. If you choose to, O'Connell is ready to_ _escort_ _you_ _where I'm staying when you receive this_ _._  

 _I will_ _never, ever_ _deserve you, Grace_ _and fear you may have seen that truth in my_ _abs_ _ence_ _._ _B_ _ut_ _despite the_ _impossibility_ _of your regard, know that y_ _ou're still here, in all of my thoughts_ _,_ _and that I_ _hold onto the_ _hope that you_ _might_ _still_ _feel as you said you did on that train_ _._  

 _All of my love and admiration,_  

 _Campbell_  

The words in the last paragraph are lengthened and messy, as if he were in some great rush – more scribbles than sentences and so unlike the composed, well-dressed man I have come to know. The urge to laugh overtakes me in a wave, and then shimmering tears follow. I swipe them away, afraid of marring the page.  

 _He's here. I can see him today, if I choose._  

Suddenly, I realize it is all that really matters – not just the ability to finally understand the culmination of my mission in Birmingham, but to hear the breadth of the exposition from _him_. To be in his presence. In his arms even.  

"The Inspector was hoping you'd do that," O'Connell grins, extending a handkerchief.  

"No, thank you," I laugh, waving it away, "No, I'm fine. But is it true? Will you take me to him?" 

"Yes, and if this palace of a house has a phone somewhere I can call us a car too." 

"They have three, but there's no need." I reach for one of the service bells Eloise is so fond of ringing, at last feeling a master of my own day. A woman with choices and opportunities once more, because if for nothing else, someone still _cares_ for me. The rest feels lighter, almost inconsequential, if for only this giddy moment. 

I'm already packing the few items I possess within my mind's eye, chasing an eventuality I never realized I had decided upon, when Brant enters the room.  

"Yes, Miss Burgess?"  

"If he is unoccupied, please have the house driver pull a car around front. Mr. O'Connell will be seeing me out this afternoon."  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the end of this piece. (4 parts, no more! Even though I've enjoyed writing this so much.) Also, on another note, I just realized there were quite a few OC's in this chapter - here's hoping they were beneficial, believable and a bit enjoyable. Thank you for reading!


	4. A Canvas Realized

Slowly and profoundly, like the germination of something hardier after the temporary colors of spring, I have felt the directives of my incomplete mission with the Peaky Blinders shifting. Rooting me earth deep in the notion that my life may once again be my own to spend or squander as I so choose. 

O’Connell has taken my arm at some point after exiting our car, steering us across a street flooded with water, carriages and motorcars. If I had not already spent weeks within the confines of opulence perhaps the grandeur of the Langham Hotel might not be so lost on me.  

A doorman allows us entry, and I am only vaguely aware of sleek marble pillars, the bustle of bellhops, and the gilded glow of chandeliers soaring high above.  

We cross the soft-lit lobby, the tumult of rain and Regent Street fading behind us, and it feels as if I have truly been stripped of all other orders and obligations; as if I have passed through some invisible easement and my only remaining directive has become personal: 

 _Stitch together the seams of your battered heart with rest and care, Agent Burgess. However you see fit to carry out the mend._  

We turn through an archway and climb a staircase against the traffic of descending guests, velvet steps pooling out towards balustrades of smooth granite and planters filled to bursting with lemon-yellow flowers. 

 _Irises_ , I realize, attention sharpening on the landscape, my stomach flipping oddly. _My favorite flowers._  

It seems a sign somehow, as if I have finally been allowed to find less madness in another thought which has been chasing me for weeks. Without legitimate reason or warning, the idea of Inspector Campbell as anything more than a supervisor and a family friend now seems validated in this small, fated way. 

We wind up several more floors and mount a new landing, my hand almost reaching out to caress the petals of an overhanging bloom. It glistens from its morning watering, the loveliest of its many sisters. O'Connell draws his arm from mine and I pause, turning to examine him instead.  

"Down this corridor, take a left at the end, and then room three forty-two will be on the left. It's hard to miss, on account of the policemen."  

He sets my suitcase down, something like an apology in his tight smile. "I'd walk the rest of the way with you but then I'll use up my three visits today, and the Inspector's asked me to run a few more errands." 

"Three visits?" I question, grounding myself fully in the present. "Is the situation truly that dire, to require visitation limits?" 

He waits for a couple to pass, nodding at them politely. "I'm sure he'll explain it all to you, Grace, as I'm sure I will see you again. Take care." 

Before I can question him anymore he is already skipping down the staircase behind me, slipping past the slower-moving guests with noticeable haste. His retreat is so similar to our brief, chaotic moments on the train, that I back against the bannister. My hands tighten on the railing, holster cinching against my ribs with each puffing breath. 

 _Threats remain legitimate then. Even here. Even now._  

Voices filter up from the lobby below, echoing like so many songs of potential and hope. The sounds are too commonplace for my renewed trepidation. The babble is soft and soothing, merging with the aroma of floral arrangements and verdant shrubs to create an intoxicating balm. It smells like ignorance, sweet and cloying. Like another, simpler life.  

 _A new, limitless day lies ahead of you, Grace_ _–_ _out there_ _,_ _in_ _some_ _safer_ _corner of the world_ _._  

I try to imagine the thought is true for a long, shuddering moment, entertaining the idea that I am standing in the same sort of limbo as these strangers – just as carefree and transitory and ready for opportunity, despite all the troubles which still cling.  

Pushing away from the staircase, I make myself walk through the corridors O'Connell directed me down. Forcing myself not to glance over a shoulder or palm the pistol below my breast.  

Sconces warm the beige wallpaper to cream, casting halos of light along the ceiling. Tucked into decorative alcoves, bouquets of white roses stand full and pristine in crystal vases, like puffed-up soldiers at attention. Each doorway I pass remains angular and calm, without any reaction to my quickening breath.  

The turn comes too soon and I halt after making it, suddenly conscious of how I must appear – a woman with an overnight bag in hand and no escort to be seen. 

 _How presumptive and unseemly,_ some sliver of propriety admonishes before my greater anticipation bowls over the thought.  

 _I want to see him. The rest doesn’t matter_. 

It is a notion beyond deliberation now, even as all the reasons for feeling so are either carefully contrived or still hidden from my understanding. It is too much like peering into a mirror and finding only the blurred outline of my reflection – to harbor this undefinable longing.     

A pair of coppers stand outside a doorway several meters down hall. I feel their attention shift in my direction, as they assess me with blank stares. _Friend or foe or guest_ , they must wonder. They are both massive men, with unflinching regards and brutal brows, but I make myself walk towards them instead of retreat. Embarrassment blooms on my neck, strange and feverish.  

“I'm here to visit Inspector Campbell," I manage crisply, stopping between the two statues.  

"Your name, Miss?" 

"Grace Burgess. A former employee of his. He requested my visit." 

They only examine my face but the left officer asks, "What's in the bag?" 

My gaze snaps to his, affront flaring despite the truth. "My things, Sir. I'm traveling today." 

"We'll need a look." The other steps toward me, reaching for the handle. "And we'll also need to check your person." 

My fingers twitch as the copper tugs the suitcase from me but I acquiesce, crossing my arms instead.  

My coat is only a temporary shield for the slender pistol Campbell slipped into my lap so many months ago. I can almost feel the heft of it pulsing against my skin, even though the holster separates us. I fear for it now. It’s too easy to confiscate, as the gun has never been registered and I've the misfortune of being born female.  

The man with my suitcase swings the bag away, popping the latches on a nearby table while the other copper saddles close.  

"Arms up, Miss." 

He starts patting along my shoulders before I've granted him the permission to do so, his fingers becoming less than delicate as he jerks my arms wide to skim underneath them... drawing closer to the holster strapped against my ribs.  

"This isn't necessary, Sir. If I could just speak to the Inspector–" 

The door swings inward behind him, as if I've somehow summoned the man himself.  

"What in the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" Campbell growls. 

The two officers continue to exact their duties as my former supervisor glares between them, his shoulders thrown back, fists balled at his sides.  

Something near a laugh escapes me at the thunderous look on his face. It’s as if I'm seeing a storm again after so much draught. He's a rumbling, quenching vision.  

His hand slams down on the lid of my suitcase, wrenching it off the table before his other palm captures mine. 

"As I've told you _all morning_ , Agent Burgess can bring a pack of grenades and a _Browning_ into this suite if she so desires!"  

He swings me into the open doorway as he speaks, and I barely glimpse the face of a bemused maid up hall, starring at us like we're a pack of street performers. 

"And as we've told you, Inspector, our orders supersede your wishes. We need to check–" 

"Check it on the way _out_ _!"_ Campbell bellows, crowding in behind me and compressing the door shut.   

I step backward, over floorboards and carpet. Into a space which seems to stretch, cave-like and dim. Thuds echo against the oak barrier and the copper grows muffled, _"Just a minute of her time..."_  

But Campbell is already forcing the slider lock into place, hefting my suitcase in hand. There is a slight hitch to his step as he reaches for a cane propped nearby.   

 _So he was shot there. In the leg._  

The thought pierces me, like the wild and searching look Campbell is assessing me with. 

 _I want to see the injury_ , I realize, regarding his leg critically. I want to trace and languish over the scar of it – over the pain he has likely endured to secure my escape – for I'm so sure he has hurt in my absence... in ways beyond the physical if my intuition proves correct. 

"I don't think they like you," I murmur, turning my attention to the door shuddering behind him.   

His gaze matches the brutal rain thrumming against the suite window. Cobalt and slate and all-consuming. Crashing against every part of me before returning to my face, the vaguest hint of disappointment there.   

"They are a _curse_ I can't yet get rid of." His cane thumps against the floorboards as he comes closer, tone fading into tenderness. "My dearest Grace... you came." 

“If I had known more, if I had been able…” 

It's too difficult to convey, the breadth of my guilt. It rises up like a choking cloud of smoke, bringing old memories with it. My efforts in Birmingham have long felt negated by my misjudgment of Tommy, and from that monumental mistake spiral so many other offenses...  

Being unable to help Campbell and the policemen at the train station looms too large for words.    

He seems to understand somehow, gently guiding me across the room and into an armchair by the window.  

The crippling urge to look away seizes me as he eases into the wingback opposite mine, and I turn to examine the rain instead. It is a silvery curtain against the glass, dulling the richness of the room to grey, muted tones. It feels like I've finally found that safer cocoon; as if the elements of light and sound have agreed to soften their powers in this secluded place.  

“I wish I had been there.” I say. 

“ _Not_ having you there was essential,” he urges, leaning forward. “You were right to board that train. I should have put you on it sooner.”  

I resolve to ignore his platitudes, pressing on before shame threatens to prevent me.  

“I wish I hadn't come to your door, that night.” I exhale, feeling all of the remorse which has plagued me these long weeks gather like a ball of sickness. "It was cowardly and selfish and beyond forgiveness to draw you and the other officers into a feud of my own making. I cannot express... when I was told two men died..." 

His hands reach across to envelop mine, softer than I remember but just as firm. "There is nothing to forgive, Grace. The onslaught was coming, whether you had warned me or not."  

My head shakes, as if I might push away the notion. It is too terrible to give face, the idea of absolution; the thought that I am not at all to blame.   

"What were their names?" 

Campbell takes a deep breath, his thumbs drawing circles against my skin. “Constable Walter Hayes and Sergeant Ernest Doherty. Good men, of my own choosing when I was assigned to Birmingham. They are to be honored at the ceremony, along with the other officers lost in the line of duty that night." 

There is so much I do not know. So many names and faces I have not even begun to grieve for. The thought makes my breath hitch.  

Too close... it skims too close to my own experiences of war. Too near to the losses I sustained then. 

 _How can anyone ever come to terms with such unnecessary_ _violence_ _?_  

I pull my hands away from him, back into my lap. The weight of the unknown terrifies me, yet I make myself ask.  

"Please, tell me everything." 

* * *

 

The street is more like a receding river now, as the storm begins to break. I have risen to watch it for well on an hour, as Campbell picked through his narrative. At times, it felt like he was navigating a mine field, heaping extraneous details atop the worst moments before finally detonating the bombs beneath. 

He's explained the fallout of the platform shoot-out: how he and another officer commandeered a car and tried to drive directly to the department, only to be sidetracked by a string of shop fires and lootings along the way. The citizens had come out in droves, to either add to the clamor for civil revolution, to join in on the violent pursuits, or to save their own businesses and homes from ruin.  

 _“_ _Madness. It was complete madness_ ,” Campbell has said. 

Even more difficult to comprehend, within the span of the same night, he has availed me of the attempted weapons robbery at the police department. From within, someone detonated several bombs to clear a way through the main gate and understaffed garrison. A number of Peaky Blinders then infiltrated and reached the cache, if only to find it chained against the bars of a holding cell. The time required to dismantle such a hindrance proved too much, while the time granted the surviving coppers to rally on the floor above was just enough. 

 _"I could have killed him, Grace."_ Campbell murmured at the very end of the account, almost in disbelief. _"_ _N_ _egotiations ended_ _and the_ _shootout began_ _,_ _and then_ _on_ _e_ _of them_ _managed to_ _hit_ _m_ _e. T_ _he men pulled me_ _back_ _but_ _we_ _still_ _had them surrounded_ _... and_ _I could have ordered the lower cell block blown in_ _..._ _I almost gave in_ _to the finality of it,_ _to have the whole retched hive of them_ _done in_ _..._ _Only your words_ _, Grace_ _... y_ _our words_ _prevented me."_  

I've felt no validation for suspecting such a scheme from Tommy. Rather, there is a tragic sense of waste. The brilliance of a mind enthralled in criminal enterprise has been squandered beyond reason. Why he would stir the streets to chaos, if only to reclaim stolen property, still alludes me. It’s as if I never understood him at all. 

Vainly, I've wondered if my refusal had anything to do with such recklessness... In the same diverting moment, I've also felt the overwhelming renewal of my regard for the Inspector. I can hardly breathe for it.  

 _He listened to my fears._ _He believed me._  

The sum of information is far greater than I thought I’d be allowed, but the words have yet to cling. The story hangs about me like the fog of someone else's nightmare.  

Above the calamity and intrigue of it all there is also a choice, pulled taunt between Campbell and I, urgent yet unsaid – the place where he last left me, on the train.  

The drenched traffic of Regent Street becomes more visible the longer the silence stretches. Cars jostle and gain speed in the calm; pedestrians pick careful, puddle-free paths; umbrellas bob down the lane like flocks of black dirigibles. 

I press my finger nails into the tacky layers of windowsill paint. “Do you think they truly believe the reports of your death?” 

Campbell rises, his clothes rustling as he comes to stand behind me. Close and comfortable, as if he might whisper some new facet of a mission into my ear. 

“We can both attest to the tenacity of Thomas Shelby. He will not deter until knowing for certain.” 

The way he says Tommy’s name has changed. There’s a sureness and a finality about it, as if he has somehow managed to pack away the unsavory memories. 

I envy such disregard. 

“His family will try to carry out whatever vengeance he asks of them.” 

“I would almost be insulted if they didn't,” he intones, breath close to my neck. “Apparently, a group of men have already seen fit to exhume my decoy grave. They scattered bullets over the mangled corpse. One, I’m told, was etched with my name.” 

“A warning.” I whisper, watching water droplets condense and form rivers on the glass. “Churchill should have assigned you more security.” 

“Two are burden enough.” He growls, the sound curling around the base of my spine. “They attract more attention than they deter. It would almost be better to travel alone.”  

I cannot completely disagree with the sentiment. The pair are like twin Goliaths, out of place in any setting. What strikes me more, however, is the invitation in the last notion – the slightest layer of suggestion which continues to thrum between us. 

 _Alone or accompanied, when he_ _departs_ _for America?_  

It is such an absurd, secondary concern to give face, but the itch of it now brings warmth to previously tepid waters. I'm unable to ignore the pull. Something has changed and matured… in ways I don’t yet understand, nor can wholly articulate.  

Part of me wants to believe it is simply the misguided remains of a desperate need to retain familiarity; for a continued closeness with the only person who loved my father as I did. 

Another, stranger part wonders at the memory of stumble against my cheek... at the unresolved, fervent pressure of large hands around my waist. At a man willing to forgo violence for a woman's continued admiration and wellbeing. 

"If it's as you suspect, if you believe the Shelby's would truly canvas the ceremony for you, then you should keep the guards all the closer." I nibble on the pad of my thumb. "Do you think those two will abandon you, when you make for a train instead of the War Office?" 

"I've dealt with their type before." Campbell says shortly. "They are as good as guard dogs, paid to bark at danger and follow wherever I lead. Don't fear for me, Grace. It is your own safety we need to discuss now." 

It is the only information he has avoided so far – the repercussions of my involvement with Thomas Shelby. I inhale deeply, but he speaks first.  

"If I recall correctly, your uncle and his family are your only remaining relatives in London?" 

"Yes," I say carefully, hesitant to discuss them further for fear of unkindness. Eloise's shrill insults are still too fresh. "I've been staying with them since the night I arrived." 

"And what of your family in Ireland? There was an aunt, correct?" 

Wariness flares. I wonder at his intent now, the threat of an unknown driving a tightness through my chest. 

"Yes, I have an aunt, another uncle, and several cousins in Galway, but I haven't spoken with them in months. Why?" 

"I cannot leave England without first settling the question of your welfare." He explains, resting his hands on my shoulders. "I've been granted the additional resources I requested. Wherever you choose to reside, while the threats against you remain legitimate and near at hand, I need to ensure you will be afforded a professional security detail at all times." 

 _He's changed his mind_ _,_ I realize. _At some point this afternoon, he has regretted what he wrote in the letter. He means to leave me. To take up the post in America as ordered, without the burden of me at his side._  

My gaze darts over the scene of the street below, chin lifting to finally assess the reflection of him, standing like a figment behind me.  

The hurt and disappointment of being regarded as nothing more than a loose end to be taken care of seems to shatter the combination of our visages. 

 _I've become a footnote to his time in London. What has made him decide against me?_  

I shrug out from under his hands, leaning heavily against the windowsill. Trying to breathe vigor and independence back into my lungs. Fighting the betraying, _accursed_ tears that threaten to blind me.   

 _You've always taken care of yourself. You can do it again._  

I will the words to take hold, to suppress the ridiculous ideas that I have foolishly allowed into my already-fragile heart.   

"Grace, what's wrong? How have I upset you?" Campbell's voice is shaken but I strive to ignore it. "You can of course stay elsewhere – anywhere you feel most comfortable... I only advise against towns near Birmingham or along the canal way..." 

I blink several times, drawing myself tall. I'm almost composed again. 

"No, my uncle's home is adequate. I have been safe there these past weeks and would hate to inconvenience you unnecessarily, Mr. Campbell. Your situation sounds more serious than my own; you should hire more guards for your voyage." 

I turn to him, taking his hand one last time. It is a struggle to remain pleasant and warm, while a portion of my being is so averse to parting; still reeling from the sudden shift in perspective. 

"Thank you for inviting me here and for explaining everything. For letting me see you again before leaving the country. I wish you every happiness in Boston, truly.” 

I squeeze his fingers, pulling my gaze away from his baffled expression. His feigned concern at my sudden departure is too much, and I move to step around him. 

His arm prevents me, gentle yet firm, holding me like I am a mare in need of calming. Pulling me to him, shushing and cradling, as I go still against his chest.  

“No, please, Grace. Explain this to me – this, this _change_. If I have offended you, if you do not want to stay with your family, tell me. But don’t just leave, not like this.” 

The tremor in his voice, the unmistakable, aghast confusion of it, finally takes hold and I make myself speak again. 

“It is kind of you to offer assistance but I am fine. I will be fine. Don't worry for me."  

I turn my face away from his quiet, downcast scrutiny, feeling another rush of embarrassment bloom across my cheeks. I've never felt so obtuse – so blatantly _wrong_ about another's desires.  

"I won't leave London until you're safe and well, Grace." His words feel like a promise rather than placation, as they brush against my forehead. "Tell me what to do. Help me understand." 

"You're too kind..." I whisper, wishing I had been more aware from the start of our visit, instead of anticipating an end that would never come.  

 _Did he decide when he first saw me?_ _Have I truly changed so much?_ I remember every waspish comment Eloise has ever made about my figure and complextion.  

"Only for you, and not nearly enough." He rushes on, shifting his weight to set his cane aside. "Let me secure your happiness and welfare, however you see fit." 

I'm too close to saying something I may regret now – to ruining what little dignity I retain. 

"Please," I urge, "I have taken up too much of your time. You should be planning the details of your long journey, and I should be going." 

He releases me slowly, as if the shattered fragments of my being may fall to pieces on the carpet. I half-believe they will, but manage to stand unaided, some remnant of my agent's training holding me aloft and impassive. I force my eyes to match his own as he speaks.  

"No, it seems I have intruded upon your own time. I'm sorry for keeping you... for still harboring my selfish desires despite your change of heart..." He hesitates before reaching to reclaim the cane. "If you'd feel more comfortable, I can have O'Connell visit this evening and make the arrangements himself.""  

His terse resignation settles strangely, as if he has had his own revelation. He blinks, shaking his head and glancing away. The words echo in the soft space, making me question, making me wonder... 

 _…his selfish desires? My change of heart?_  

Some boldness overtakes me, fueled by the tiniest burst of hope and an overwhelming exasperation. I'm sick of manipulations and over-analyzations. Reading people without actually hearing their thoughts was my former life.  

I should strive for answers in this new one, not second guesses.  

"How do you believe my heart has changed, Sir?" 

He looks anywhere except directly at me, careful with his words. "We needn't discuss it, and I wholly understand. It is clear to me now that your feelings are no longer the same... in light of _this_." 

He thumps the cane on the floor, cursing the instrument with both voice and action.  

My mind is blank for a long, heart-wrenching, impossible moment. 

For I've been wrong. So wrong.  

"You think... you believe your injury has changed how I feel about you?" I cannot help the bubbling disbelief of my tone, nor the grin which threatens. It’s too ridiculous.  

The sound and sight of both whip his attention to me, his brows gathering like clouds over the storm in his eyes. 

"There's no need to ridicule me for it," he barks, shifting to turn away. "I would have expected–" 

" _Stop_ ," I interrupt, reaching out. Stepping close again, back into his sensory bubble of bergamot and freshly laundered cotton and masculine warmth. "I think we have both misunderstood each other. I've been upset by your impending departure, nothing else." 

He stiffens as I take his free hand, tracing the broad pad of his thumb, then the creases of his palm, waiting for the truth to dawn on him as well. I don't trust my voice yet, for fear of its waver.  

“And you accuse _me_ of being too kind?” He gripes, insult still in his tone though he does not pull away. “There is no need for these niceties. I will understand your new reservations with the benefit of reflection and time… though I will not pretend to accept them now… you’re a torment, you must know.” 

I almost laugh again yet refrain somehow, dipping my head forward, for his explanations are so far off the mark. Confusion over my own desires and his assumed detachment has led me completely astray. 

“You’re a torment yourself, Mr. Campbell – expecting me to stay with people I hardly care for anymore." I look up, trying to convince him. Attempting to convey my sincerity. "Propose a better alternative.” 

 _There, I've shoved the question into the light._   

Bold as brass, I cannot believe I've encouraged a topic of conservation I would have loathed to bridge only a few weeks prior. Hearing the thought out loud turns my stomach into a fluttering mess.  

He studies me, jaw working around some invisible ire. "Grace, you may be striving for sympathy in this moment, but you're only extending my anguish. You have made your feelings on such an arrangement quite clear." 

"And I have also said that time and distance from Birmingham might change my outlook on the institution." 

 _I'm starved for love._ I admit the truth of it to myself at last, feeling the weight of the torment lift. It is easier to manage somehow, now that I've faced it.  

His mouth parts, exhale short and pained, attention shifting over my expression. Suddenly hopeful, even as he seems irrevocably desperate, like a man watching his last sunset.  

"I would have already been a burden to you, in age and inadequacy... you cannot possibly accept me _now_." He exhales. "Do not continue to believe that I expect it of you. My letter this morning was far too presumptive." 

 _Can I_ _ever_ _love a man so reverent – so inclined to see himself as less when I'll always see him as more?_  

I wonder it again, if only half-heartedly. The larger part of me wants nothing to do with thought or logic any longer. My foundations have shifted from dreams of solemn understandings and crystalline blue gazes and the intense, wandering urge to explore the dangers of a life with Thomas Shelby.  

My desires are wholly different now. Purer and less complicated, like an offering of fresh, quiet salvation. I long for warm, unhurried embraces, fierce protection and murmured endearments.  

Love, comfort. _Normalcy_.  

No matter how little I may deserve such gifts, I'm greedy for them... and also, amazingly, for the bearer who brings them.  

The rhythm of my pulse seems too quick for conversation, as I draw Campbell's knuckles under my lips.  

"You've faced greater foes than a question, Inspector. Now stop listing all the reasons that _don't_ prevent me – for I can assure you none of them do – and ask me properly." 

"Are you _ordering_ me into another proposal?" He laughs, more in disbelief than true amusement. 

"I've heard that the 'third time is the charm', but if you'd rather not..." I glance away, puffing out a breath, finding the prospect of teasing him far more enjoyable than I'd have ever anticipated.  

He grins, cocking his head, crinkled gaze steady on mine as he reaches between us – into an inner pocket of his jacket.  

"I will confess that I had kept _some_ hope before actually seeing you this afternoon, and am readily prepared for your... _demand_ _s_. Do you know how difficult it is to select jewelry, when confined to a hotel room?"  

"Is your goal to guilt me into marriage? Because I'd rather be charmed," I jest, barely holding onto my feigned sternness at the sight of green velvet.  

He opens the tiny box, bringing it up between us, his hand wavering slightly.   

The outside sky is still laden with iron-grey clouds, yet there is enough ambient light in the room to catch the sharp, rectangular facets of a clear stone. The ring is different than the last he offered me; not laden with a halo of distracting diamonds, it is simple and solitary. I care little for jewelry but find myself transfixed. It feels appropriate now, for a woman with a singular purpose. 

"I promise to never guilt you into anything, Grace, nor to leave your side. I will strive to charm you, to deserve your wit, your kindness, and your beauty for the rest of my days, if you decide to have me." He pulls the ring from its cushion. "Will you marry me?"  

And somehow it is before me again – the rare, endearing lightness in his voice and eyes. It's as if the contents of a grave never mattered at all; as if another man never lingered in the dark spaces between us; as if the years have been pealed back to show me some brighter, hungrier shade of his youth.  

I drink it in, cupping his hands beneath mine as I finally say, " _Yes_." 

 

  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! With enough interest I have had visions of a post-marriage epilogue, so please let me know if one last (probably steamy) glimpse into the future of this unlikely pair is of interest.


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